


Our Other, Terrible Friends

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Conventions, First Time, Las Vegas, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, The Ackles Hips of Doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2177385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha is uncomfortably aware of Jensen's hips.  Jensen makes an ill-considered bet.  Jared is some kind of booze savant.  Also, Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Other, Terrible Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog. 
> 
> Also, if you're curious, [here's the inspiration for the awful pink shit](http://sparklingnuvo.com/).
> 
> Thanks to 51stCenturyFox for the beta-fu.

So, uh, there was this thing that happened in Rome, right? With the resumes? The special-skills-acting-on-camera-and-dancing thing. 

And man, there are few pleasures so sublime as Fucking With Jensen Ackles on a Stage. 

One, it is absolutely public vengeance for the shit he and Jared pull on set. Seriously. _What’s that Jen? You’re out in front of a crowd and I’m breaking your composure? You don’t deserve composure. You opted out of composure with that second pie, or the time you let Jared take my pants off, or that one time when you put your hand — oh what, you don’t want me to talk about where your hand was around a group of people who will let me embarrass the living shit out of you?_

_Anne Lamott says that people own everything that happens to them, Jensen. This kind of ammunition doesn’t arise in a vacuum._

The other reason is maybe a little more complicated. It’s kind of about chemistry and performance. Sometimes they just click when they’re up there taking pot shots and trying to crack each other up, and afterward Misha’s just fucking _energized_ , and a little worn out from all the laughing, and it’s perfect. 

It’s something people who don’t like making art with friends can’t understand, and Misha can’t quite form language around it without a lot of ums and uhs and gestures and metaphors. Not that he needs to, because nobody ever asks him about it really, but when he thinks about things that he likes this is one of them.

But there was that resume thing. He has never stopped thinking about that resume thing.

There’s a difference between being aesthetically aware that somebody is good-looking and being sexually aware of them. Jared, for example. Nobody with working eyes is going to look at Jared Padalecki and argue that he’s not a prime specimen of masculine attractiveness, but his abs don’t keep Misha up at night. 

But that thing that Jensen does with his hips when he’s dancing around? Misha would do some unambiguously shady-ass shit for even a little bite of that tragically heterosexual Klondike bar. 

On the one hand, being sexually aware of Jensen adds a certain verisimilitude to the fanservice. And the fanservice is fun, not least because sometimes it coincides perfectly with that other category of fun things, being Fucking With Jensen Ackles on a Stage.

But shit, it’s not getting any easier to stop. He’s been trying to sublimate some of that energy — Matt’s always up for high weirdness, and Misha’s glad to take advantage because the reactions on Twitter alone are gold — but it’s like eating late at night instead of just going the fuck to sleep. It’s not even a good Band-Aid. It’s just a numbing behavior.

And this is all internal expository dialogue leading to the fact that tonight they are in Vegas, and the Vegas con is actually terrifying in its scale. 

Vegas can also be credited (blamed?) for about fifty other things, including the jokes in the green room being bluer than usual, Osric threatening to buy a pimp hat and start a brothel, and Kim Rhodes winning the most aggressive game of strip poker Misha has ever witnessed. 

So of course his panel with Jensen is five kinds of inappropriate touching, and the motherfucker brings out the Ackles Hips of Doom at the end when somebody’s phone goes off and it’s Hendrix and so he makes the poor girl come up to the mic and play it over the speakers while he gyrates to “Angel.”

And then he looks Misha straight in the eyes and bites his lip and winks like he knows. 

Which explains — hello, additional internal expository dialogue — why Misha is out on the patio staring at the pool instead of hanging out in the party suite. He is both separate and visible here, and those two things go a long way toward stopping him from doing things he’ll regret. 

It’s not like he’s alone out here. It’s a big patio and it’s a nice night.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a text from Jared.

_dude where are you_

He starts to type out a reply but it buzzes again.

_j says you have to come try this awful fizzy pink vodka stuff_

And again.

_seriously come back to the party_

Misha goes back to the party.

He finds them in a corner with Matt and Sebastian. Jared’s giggling and pouring tequila shots. Jensen’s holding onto a beer for what looks like dear life, as if letting go of the bottle will mean getting dragged into whatever Jared’s doing. 

“Misha!” Jared shouts, and practically tackles him. “Jensen lost a bet.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Oh, Christ, here we go.” 

“Oh yes,” Sebastian says with the kind of grin that Misha has come to associate with extreme mischief. “Here we very, very go.”

Matt’s just covering his mouth with his hand, like it’ll hide his smirk. It doesn’t. Not even a little.

“I’m not doing it,” Jensen says. “Because first of all, that pink shit is the freaking devil.”

Jared shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. You shook on that bet. There are witnesses.”

“Yeah, and that would be reason number two I am not doing this,” Jensen says and waves his hand to indicate the party around them. “Witnesses. Fucking Instagram is a thing, Jay.”

“Should have thought of that before you made that bet.”

“Also, I’m pretty sure you didn’t tell Misha you were gonna make him do body shots off of me.”

Misha wonders if the concierges in Vegas hotels help with hiding bodies. He guesses some of them might, but the service probably more expensive than he can afford.

But he can afford this. Call it revenge.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out five twenties, and looks Jensen in the eyes as he puts them on the table. “I’ve got a hundred dollars here that says Jensen Ackles is too chickenshit to come up to my room where there are no witnesses and make good on his bet.”

Jared nearly chokes on his shot. Seb and Matt go straight for their wallets to match his bet. Jensen clenches his jaw.

“I’ll take that bet,” Jensen says, finally.

Misha picks up the bottle of the pink stuff, gives the table a little bow, and puts his arm around Jensen’s shoulders.

They’re in the elevator before either of them says anything.

“You’re a dick, Misha.”

“It has been said.” He shrugs, examines the bottle. “Jesus, this looks really terrible. Who mixes vodka with sparkling wine?”

“The French, apparently?”

“Hmm.”

Jensen fidgets. 

“I’m not really going to make you do body shots with me if you don’t want to.” Misha stretches his shoulders and pops his neck. It’s not a conscious choice to mirror orgy Castiel, but it amuses him when he realizes the connection. “Mostly I was fucking with you.”

“Mostly?”

The elevator doors open, and Misha peeks out. The corridor is empty. He leads Jensen out and down the hall to his room, digging the card out of his pocket as they walk.

“Well, either I decided I wanted to get you alone, or I noticed you needed an out. Take your pick.” 

So maybe it’s both, but hey, Misha’s inevitably going to have to settle for the latter. Maybe that’ll go down easier with a the pink shit. He cards in. They step inside. Misha uncaps the bottle and takes a swig. 

Honestly? He’s tasted worse.

“Oh god, you’re actually drinking it.”

“Jared’ll notice if none of it’s gone. The guy’s some kind of booze savant.” 

Jensen laughs. “I was thinking the sink, but knock yourself out.”

Misha raises the bottle as if to toast, then chugs. 

Jensen’s hand lands on his and Misha almost chokes as Jensen makes him lower the bottle. 

“Okay, seriously, Mish. What the hell is with you? Is it the body shots thing? Because if it is I’ll whip Jared’s ass. Don’t think I won’t.”

Misha shakes his head. “It’s not the body shots.”

He really should have stayed on the patio.

“Is it the dancing?” Jensen sets the bottle down on the desk and puts his hands on Misha’s hips. He licks his lips and brushes his nose against Misha’s. “Because I’m willing to bet it’s the dancing.”

“How’d you know?”

Jensen leans in and brushes his stubble against the side of Misha’s neck. 

He swallows. No, he freezes. He feels his heart rate jump into the stratosphere because shit, this is not happening. Jensen is straight. Like an arrow. Like a ruler. Like a curtain rod. Like a popsicle stick. Like a… 

Jensen nips at his skin. “Mish, we’re actors and I spend, like, ninety percent of my time fucking with you. I can tell when something gets under your skin.”

“You dick,” Misha says, entirely without venom. “You threw the bet, you wily little shit, and here I was ready to take one for the team.”

Jensen starts to look smug, but Misha digs his fingers into his hair and kisses the grin right off his face, because if Jensen’s going to do this to him, he’s damn well going to get something out of it before one of them freaks out and backs away.

They almost miss the bed, but Jensen grabs the edge and pulls them in closer to the middle. Misha’s hands are busy exploring the borders of Jensen’s clothes and finding good ways into them. His hands slide up under shirts, caressing warm skin. 

“You taste good,” Misha whispers against Jensen’s lips. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to say that.”

“You taste like that awful pink shit,” Jensen quips, then yelps when Misha pokes him in the ribs. 

Fuck, this is good. It’s impossible, but it’s awesome.

Misha pushes up into a kneel and takes in the view: Jensen, rumpled and on his bed. There’s a promising-looking bulge in those jeans. He ghosts his fingers over the denim and the little sound Jensen makes definitely gets his dick’s attention. “I’ve got a couple of ideas about other things I can taste like.”

“We could do those body shots after all.”

Misha undoes Jensen’s belt and jeans. “You sure? I was planning on sucking this dick I just found in your pants, but if you want me to take another mouthful of that stuff—”

“I think my dick just vetoed body shots,” Jensen says, and covers his eyes with his hands. “That’s not something I ever thought I’d say.” 

“Well, tell your dick my mouth is very, very grateful.” 

Jensen raises his hips so that Misha can pull his jeans down. When Jensen pushes his shoes and socks off with his toes, Misha takes the hint and pulls them all the way off. When he finishes, he looks up in time to see Jensen toss his shirts aside. 

“I feel overdressed.”

“So take your clothes off,” Jensen says, and puts a hand behind his head. He runs his other hand down his chest and belly, then wraps it around his half-hard dick. 

The temptation to just undo every button at lightning speed and fall to his knees between Jensen’s legs gets short-circuited by the thing Jensen starts doing with his hips. A new thing. A thing better than the dancing. 

He rocks them slow in time with his hand, and so Misha strips down slow, transfixed by every motion, every eyelash flutter, every soft moan. He’s showing off. Literally performing. It’s wet-dream perfect, and by the time Misha pulls off his socks they’re both rock-hard, Misha half from the visual and half from his own hand.

“You still want to suck this dick?”

Misha kneels down on the bed between Jensen’s legs and answers with a swipe of his tongue over Jensen’s tip.

“Oh fuck.”

“Maybe later, if you’re good,” Misha says, and moves Jensen’s hand aside.

He starts with little laps of his tongue, short like brushstrokes, each one more tease than the last, and is gratified by the way Jensen’s hips stay mobile, not so much an earnest effort to get his cock somewhere as evidence that this is definitely working for him. By the time he moves on to the long strokes, Jensen’s already starting to babble — _holy fuck, Misha, oh god, yes, Mish, damn it, Mish, I want, I want, oh fuck_ — but at least he’s got the good grace not to grab Misha by the back of the head and try to drive. 

“I could make you come like this,” Misha murmurs. “Or I could keep you on that edge for an hour.”

Jensen whimpers. 

Misha swallows him down. He does it sudden and deep — probably a little too fast, if he’s honest — but god damn, the sound Jensen makes when he does it is worth it. He bobs his head and sucks and doesn’t let up, even when Jensen’s hips lose their rhythm because he’s about to come. 

Hell, especially then. 

It’s been a while since Misha took a load in his mouth, and it almost catches him by surprise before he can gulp it down, eyes squinched tight with the effort of doing this gracefully. Ish. Maybe more ish, but Jensen definitely doesn’t seem to mind.

He sucks in a breath through his nose, licks Jensen clean, and then sits up to get a good look at his handiwork. 

Jensen’s sprawled and panting, sweat-sheened and debauched, his freckles standing out against flushed skin. He’s looking at Misha like…well, Misha’s not entirely sure what Jensen’s frame of reference is in this moment, but it’s apparently pretty awesome, because he looks blissed as hell. 

“I’m still winning that bet, you know,” Misha says as he straddles Jensen’s hips. “You still too chickenshit to let me do that body shot?”

“Misha, at this point, you could drop a train on me and I’d be into it.”

“So jerk me off.”

Jensen’s all too glad to comply. Misha leans back a little and basks in the pump and glide of an unfamiliar fist. He doesn’t try to last. What he does do, though, is make sure he’s got a good angle when he comes. 

His load streaks up Jensen’s belly and chest, and before Jen can finish milking him, Misha leans down to start licking it off of him. He laps it up, sucking at the skin, leaving a trail of filthy kisses until he’s really just working up Jensen’s chest and throat to his gorgeous fucking mouth. 

“Taste us,” he growls, and Jensen clings to him, kissing him with about as much grace as a desperate teenager. It’s awesome.

Misha rolls off of him and sprawls out on the bed. 

“That was…I don’t even know,” Jensen says. “Holy shit.”

“Plus, you just made three hundred dollars.”

“What?”

Misha licks his lips. “Body shots, remember?”

“You’re a lunatic,” Jensen mumbles and covers his face with his hands. “A maniac.”

“I am a good friend who rescued you from our other, terrible friends, gave you a killer blowjob, and threw a hundred dollar bet for your benefit,” Misha says and nudges him in the ribs. “Now come on. We have to get dressed and collect.”

“I hate you.”

“You so very don’t.” Misha reaches down onto the floor and retrieves Jensen’s jeans. “Now get up. I need you to vouch I drank that awful pink shit.”


End file.
